Golden Hearts
by b3cks
Summary: Noble, steadfast, and courageous. Through ice, fire, and darkest evil, the house of Finarfin remained faithful throughout the ages of Arda. This year's B2MEM drabbles focus on Finarfin, Finrod, Galadriel, Aegnor, Angrod, Earwen, Finduilas, and Celebrian, among others.
1. Friendship

No, I am not Tolkien.

**Friendship **

"Long before, in the bliss of Valinor, before Melkor was unchained, or lies came between them, Fingon had been close in friendship with Maedhros; and though he knew not yet that Maedhros had not forgotten him at the burning of the ships, the thought of their ancient friendship stung his heart. Therefore he dared a deed which is justly renowned among the feats of the princes of the Noldor: alone, and without the counsel of any, he set forth in search of Maedhros; and aided by the very darkness that Morgoth had made he came unseen into the fastness of his foes." –The Silmarillion

Back to Middle Earth Month is here again! =D

* * *

A golden light glowed over the horizon. It was the most light Finrod had seen since the Trees had died, but it kindled no hope. It was gold of greed, gold of pride, gold of betrayal. Feanor had enticed them into violent rebellion and then left them to face the Valar's judgement alone. He burned his stolen ships to ensure that his own kin were stranded.

Finrod watched his uncle collapse onto his knees with a scream that eloquently summed up what everyone was feeling.

Turgon was restraining his sister. Aredhel was attempting a valiant, although futile, effort to wade into the water, screaming and struggling against her brother.

Elenwe held her daughter on her hip. She gently pushed her head down against her shoulder, and covered the little girl's eyes, as if to keep her from viewing the bitter sight across the sea.

Finrod looked to his own family, and saw Aegnor pacing and cursing as if his cousins could hear. Angrod wrapped his arms around Galadriel, who remained straight and stiff.

But it was Fingon that worried Finrod the most. He walked over to his raven-haired cousin. Fingon stood still, tears slowly freezing on his cheeks. He was completely defeated. Finrod forced his gaze away from the dried blood on Fingon's tunic, and laid a hand on his shoulder.

It was a moment before Fingon responded. "Gone," he whispered. "They're gone." Finrod winced as his cousin spun toward him, fiercely gripping his hand. His eyes were wild and unnerved Finrod. "He left me! We… we were… but he left. He's gone!" Fingon sobbed. Finrod hugged the grief-stricken elf, afraid he would fall.

"Will he come back?" Finrod paused after hearing the question. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to assure Fingon that his best friend had not abandoned him to die. He wanted to say everything would be fine, but he couldn't. So he stayed silent and held his cousin tighter.

Finrod looked up and met his father's eyes. _Come home with me, _Finarfin pleaded.

Finrod closed his eyes. He knew that returning was the right choice. He needed to comfort his mother. He needed to beg his grandfather's forgiveness. He needed to be with Amarie.

But as he comforted the shivering elf in his arms, he knew he couldn't. Today he had learned what abandonment was, and he could not leave his dearest friend.


	2. Inner vs Outer Strength

**Inner vs. Outer Strength**  
"A sudden understanding, a pity mixed with horror, welled up in Bilbo's heart: a glimpse of endless unmarked days without light or hope of betterment, hard stone, cold fish, sneaking and whispering. All these thoughts passed in a flash of a second. He trembled. And then quite suddenly in another flash, as if lifted by a new strength and resolve, he leaped." –The Hobbit

* * *

Orodreth walked through the stone corridors, trying to gather the nerve to enter Finrod's office. The king's office. _His _office. All this time he had avoided the true responsibility of running Nargothrond. But then the messengers came, and Orodreth could no longer ignore the fact that he was king.

Muffled voices drew him out of his melancholic thoughts. The voices were coming from the conference room.

Orodreth frowned. No one should be there. He had desired privacy, and he had certainly not called a council meeting. He ignored the guards who straightened slightly as he passed them and pushed open the doors.

If he was unsettled by the thought of company, he was outraged by the sight before him.

"Ah! Cousin! We were just going to send for you," Celegorm threw a pleasant smile at Orodreth.

The entire council was seated around the meeting table. Celegorm sat at the head, in Finrod's vacant seat. Curufin sat on his brother's right side gazing at his cousin with a slight upturn of his mouth. Orodreth could not decide if it was a grimace or a smirk.

_I trust you brother. _That had been Finrod's one admonishment before he left: _For the love of all the Valar do not let Feanor's sons usurp your rule. Our people are not cursed by their oath, but I truly fear that would change if the Feanorians reigned in Nargothrond. _

Orodreth had not cared much. He had been too caught in his own grief, in his own fear, in his own guilt. He had been grateful for the assistance his cousins had offered.

This ended now.

"Get. Up." He ordered, trying to hide his surprise at hearing the authority in his own voice.

Celegorm cocked an eyebrow to demand an explanation for this order.

Orodreth advanced toward the head of the table. He subconsciously noted Curufin resting a hand on the dagger at his hip. Celegorm remained still.

"It is customary to stand when the king enters a room. Get up," he demanded again.

The other council members slowly got to their feet, begrudgingly followed by the Feanorians.

He glared Celegorm out of the king's place and deliberately sat down. The councilers retook their seats, leaving Celegorm standing awkwardly.

The Feanorion's smile this time was not so pleasant when he addressed Orodreth. "I cannot imagine why you are so offended. I am simply here to help you. Things have been difficult recently, and now, with the death of Finrod…"

The sentence had not reached a conclusion before Celegorm lay on floor, Orodreth's dagger at his throat.

"You're going to kill me Artaresto?" the Feanorion snarled. Orodreth kept his much stronger cousin pinned beneath him by adrenaline and rage. All his attention was focused on the small trickle of blood that began to run down Celegorm's neck. Orodreth assumed Curufin was restrained by the lack of knife through his back.

The rage began to dissipate and be replaced by revulsion. Would he kill his cousin?

Celegorm caught the debate playing in Orodreth's conscience. "Do it!" he dared. "Kill me. See if you have the nerve." Orodreth drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. Celegorm laughed. "You can't do it! You should. It's your right. But you don't have the strength to carry it out. You always were the weakest of all of us."

Orodreth gritted his teeth. He was so tempted… but Celegorm was right. He wasn't strong enough. He shoved his cousin roughly into the floor as he stood. Blinking, he glanced around the room. Just as he thought, Curufin had been relieved of his knife and was being held back. Celegorm was pulled to his feet. Everyone watched Orodreth, waiting for his judgement. He glared at both his cousins.

"You have until next sunrise to gather your things and the people that would follow you. You are hereby banished from this realm. Do not let me see your faces again. Guards, see to it they have assistance packing."

Angry, exhausted, and disgusted, Orodreth spun on his heel and shoved his way out of the room. He needed air. He would never be the ruler his brother had been. He simply did not have the strength.


	3. Discipline

Still making no money from this.

**Discipline**

"'Give me leave, lord,[...] and I will guard him and guide him as I may; then no man shall say that elven-words are lightly spoken. Nor would I wish to see so great a good run to nothing in the wild.'" -The Silmarillion

* * *

The morning mists had evaporated away by the time Gildor Inglorion had made it to the practice fields.

Gildor approached Malthenir, his friend and fellow guardsman. "You finally woke up? What I would not give for such an easy life!" his friend lamented dramatically.

Gildor snorted. "You would not call it easy if you had a meeting with the king at dawn." Malthenir chuckled and turned back to look at the training field. Gildor noticed a lonely figure practicing sword drills with a Sindarin blade. "How long has he been working?"

"Since before I got here. I think he's the man that returned with Gwindor. I heard the king has welcomed him to stay here." Malthenir glanced at Gildor hoping his friend would deign to gossip.

"That's common knowledge," Gildor smirked, his eyes not leaving the man.

Malthenir nodded. "So the king thinks that's wise? After all, he did escape as Morgoth's prisoner. It's possible he's a spy," he tried again.

Gildor faced his friend, drawing close so he could whisper. "Do you want to know what the king really thinks?" Malthenir's eyes widened as he nodded. "Well, then you will have to ask the king, because he has not shared his personal thoughts with me. The king does not hold me in the same esteem as you do." He gave Malthenir's shoulder a good-natured smack, and jogged onto the field to avoid further questions. It was true that the king was fond of Gildor, but their relationship was… complicated.

He picked up a practice sword and hailed the man, forcing him to pause his blocking. "Are you tired of hacking invisible enemies?" Gildor smiled.

The dark haired man stared at him sullenly for a moment, then answered with a perfect Doriath accent, "A swordsman is either disciplined or dead." He turned away and continued his drill.

Bemused, Gildor blinked. The man had a fair point. His elven hearing caught Malthenir's muffled laugh from the sidelines. Instead of glaring at his friend, Gildor chased the man down again. He was forced to jump back at the man's too-eager jab. He chose to give him the benefit of the doubt, and assumed the move was unintentional.

"I am not arguing you. Let me get to the point of my earlier comment. Would you like to spar with me? It would be good for me to practice with an opponent with fresh technique." He smiled encouragingly once again.

The man sighed. "Very well." He made it seem as if he was granting Gildor a great favor.

By now, Gildor was annoyed with the man's arrogant sullenness. Although Gildor was young according to elven years, he was a gifted warrior who had benefitted from outstanding training. The man had good form, but Gildor was confident the match wouldn't be too difficult.

"I'm Gildor," the elf stuck his hand out.

"Turin," nodded the man, ignoring Gildor's hand.

They both took a couple paces back. Gildor glanced at Malthenir and rolled his eyes. He turned back and saluted Turin.

They began to circle each other. Gildor easily blocked a few swings, meant to test his weaknesses. He laughed to himself. The man was too hot-headed and impatient. After a few minutes of teasing his opponent by not attacking, he decided to end the match. He saw an opening, and lunged.

The next thing Gildor was aware of was lying on the ground, with a blade at his throat and the sound of his friend's howling laughter in his ears. After a dazed moment, he took Turin's hand, stood up, and brushed off his tunic. "How…?"

He was surprised to see Turin grin. "Disciplined or dead," he repeated. This time Gildor did roll his eyes.

"Where did you learn that?"

"Beleg taught me swordsmanship."

Gildor gaped at him. "Beleg! Beleg as in Beleg Cuthalion?"

"Of course. He personally taught every marchwarden swordsmanship." The man nodded.

"Marchwarden? Of Doriath? They don't even take most elves! How did you…?" Gildor stopped when he realized the offensiveness of that question.

Turin looked at him as if he was insane. "Discipline," he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Discipline," Gildor repeated. The man had gone back to practicing his drills, so Gildor turned back towards Maltheniir.

"I've never seen a more pathetic match!" Malthenir crowed. Gildor shoved his friend as he walked past, sending to him the ground.

Malthenir continued to laugh hysterically.

* * *

AN: I chose to use Turin's real name instead of the one he used at Nargathrond because it was easier. I also picked Gildor as my Arafinwion. I can defend myself by saying his name is Gildor "Inglorion" which means "son of Inglor," and Inglor was one of Finrod's names. It might be a small stretch, but it also make sense in my headcannon. I think he must have Finrod's foster-son.


	4. Judgement

I've been wanting to write this scene for a while. Glad I finally had the opportunity.

**Judgement**

"Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement. For even the very wise cannot see all ends." –Fellowship of the Ring

* * *

Finarfin was surprised the palace guards had admitted him inside. If he was honest with himself, he was surprised he had been allowed to enter into the city.

Tirion was the first place he had gone to after returning from the cold north. Many of his people had followed him back home. But not his children. The hurt and anger in their eyes had made him sick.

No, that wasn't true. It had made him desperately sad, but not sick. What had made him sick was the battle at Alqualonde. Slaughter, not battle.

As he had traveled farther north with his brothers, he realized that he needed to return to his wife. Earwen had not been in Tirion when he arrived, and Anaire said she had gone to Alqualonde. Finarfin had known he would need to confront Olwe, but he had hoped to wait, at least a little while. He gathered his courage along with a change of clothing and a horse, and rode back down to the sea.

The halls of Olwe's palace were silent. There was no flute playing, or friendly laughter, or children's running footsteps, as there usually was.

The guards walked beside him. They might have let him in, but they would not trust him. Not now. Finarfin arrived outside Olwe's throne room. He only had time for one calming breath before the guards opened the doors. They did not announce him.

Olwe was slumped on his throne. The queen sat beside him holding a grandchild. Various family members, advisors, and courtiers were scattered about the hall, but Finarfin did not see Earwen.

The silence was oppressive as Finarfin walked toward the throne. He could hear his own heartbeat and feel the glares that followed him. Olwe did not look up until Finarfin stopped a few yards away. Both men froze, gazing at each other for a moment. Finarfin's hands shook, but he not lower his eyes.

"Alagos," Olwe beckoned to his youngest son. Finarfin noted his arm was in a sling. Alagos approached his father, knelt down, and took his hand. "Stay here," Olwe ordered his son.

After a moment, Alagos apparently realized what the king meant. "Atar!" he whispered, dismayed.

"Stay," the king repeated. Instead of arguing, Alagos nodded and stood up. He moved to stand beside the king's throne, where the crown prince usually stood. Where he should have stood. Alagos was the king's third and youngest son.

Finarfin choked back a sob when he realized the implications. Earwen's eldest brothers had been murdered by Finarfin's family.

"What do you want, son of Finwe?" the king addressed him.

Finarfin fell to his knees, bowing, his head touching the marble floor.

"I am so, so sorry," he said, not lifting his face. It was not enough. It would never be enough.

"Do you seek pardon?" Olwe spat, disgusted and angry.

Finarfin shook his head. "I do not ask pardon for that which is unforgivable."

"Then why, are you here?" he shouted, standing up from his throne.

After several heartbeats, Finarfin straightened. He met the king's eyes, but he remained on his knees. The king turned away.

"You deserve justice, your Highness. I am here to give you what little I can."

Olwe paused and then looked back. "You offer me justice? Yet you were not part of this…" he waved a hand to prevent from finishing the sentence.

"Yes, I do. It does not matter. They were my… my family. I am here in my brothers' stead."

The king frowned at his eyes at his son-in-law. "You offer justice?" he repeated. "What could you do that could ever make this right? They took my sons from me!" he clutched his chest. "Would you give me yours? Blood for blood, you would do that?"

Finarfin tasted bile, not certain how serious the king was. "They left," he said. "They chose exile." The pain of that choice was far too fresh.

"Then what of you? Would you give your blood for the sake of justice?" Olwe demanded.

Finarfin raised his chin. He was grateful to give an honest answer. "I would give my very soul to erase the deeds of these past few days. Since I cannot, I will offer my life instead. If it would give you or your people an ounce of peace, I beg you to take it." He hung his head.

The hall was silent for a long time. Finarfin would not look up, so he did not see the reactions to his statement. He did not hear the rustle of cloth before it was startlingly close.

He looked up as Olwe dropped to his knees in front of him. The ancient elf lifted Finarfin's chin and looked into his eyes. "It would bring me no peace to lose another son." He enveloped his son-in-law in a tight hug and whispered, "I am so glad you came home."


	5. Firelight

**Firelight**

"And in those days the strength of Men was added to the power of the Noldor; and their hope was high; and Morgoth was straitly enclosed." –The Silmarillion

* * *

"What news from the High King's council?" Orodreth asked, sitting down beside his brother.

Aegnor accepted the glass Orodreth offered him. "Nothing."

Orodreth chuckled. "I know you have no patience for meetings, but surely you didn't sleep through all of it?"

"I wasn't sleeping, although my time might have been better spent," Aegnor grumbled. "Nothing came of the meeting, nothing was decided on, nothing is going to happen now. Nothing." Aegnor grimaced and placed his drink down and stood up. "The King might have acted, but Angrod and I were the only ones calling for anything to be done!" He began to pace.

Orodreth remained seated. He was used to his brother's high-energy habits. "What of Fingon?" he inquired.

Aegnor snorted, disgusted with his favorite cousin. "Fingon wanted us to wait, to grow stronger."

Orodreth raised his eyebrows. "Fingon argued caution?"

Aegnor rolled his eyes. "I would not have believed if I had not seen it."

"Surely Meadhros sees the error of miscalculating Morgoth," Orodreth reasoned.

Aegnor shook his head. "He and Fingon were in agreement."

This time Orodreth snorted. Nothing new there. "None of the Feanorians wanted to attack Angband?" he was incredulous.

"No!" Aegnor smacked his fist into his palm, Orodreth wondered which cousin it was meant for. Probably all of them. "Maglor, of course, did not desire war. Celegorm and Curufin seem happy as long as there is a horse to ride or a blade to sharpen. And Caranthir…"

Orodreth set his teeth, bracing for what was to come. Caranthir, Angrod and Aegnor had played this little game since before Aegnor had reached his majority in Tirion.

"And Caranthir, that red-faced, drake-eating, orc-spawn…"

"Peace brother," Orodreth chided. He was impressed, however at Aegnor's creativity.

Aegnor ignored him. "He had the nerve to tell me that MY temper was enough to ignite a balrog's wings at fifty paces!" Orodreth choked on his wine. "He told me that! He lives out in Valar-doomed Thargelion, where the most vicious creatures are rabid squirrels! He knows nothing of Morgoth's power." Aegnor slumped onto his seat and ran his fingers through his hair.

Orodreth placed a hand on his arm as Aegnor began to tug on his wild mane. "Peace, brother," he repeated. "The next council will not be so indecisive, I am sure." He leaned back in his own seat.

Aegnor shook his head. "It will be too late by then."

"How can you be so certain? If Maedhros and Fingon do not believe we need to act urgently…"

"It doesn't matter," Aegnor interrupted. He stared quietly into the fire.

His stillness alarmed Orodreth. "What do you mean?" he frowned, waiting breathless for the answer.

Aegnor spoke, the flames dancing in his eyes. "Morgoth will come. He will drive South, through Dorthonion."

Orodreth leaned forward. "How do you know this? Hithlum would make just as much sense."

"You must promise me something," Aegnor looked at his brother.

"Aegnor!" Orodreth protested, feeling panicky.

"Take care of her. Make certain she is safe," Aegnor pleaded.

"What are you saying?"

"Please," Aegnor whispered.

Orodreth closed his eyes and nodded. "I promise," he said.

"Thank you," Aegnor said in relief. He scooted closer to Orodreth and rested his head on his shoulder.

Orodreth's arm eventually went numb, and Aegnor desparately wanted to fidget, but neither one was willing to break the fragile spell. They sat silently, staring into the fire long into the night.

* * *

I believe that the letter for today's challenge is "E," so I chose "firelight" to be my key word. Hey, I never said I was an English major.

The 'she' Aegnor is referring to is his human lover, Andreth.


	6. Names

**Names**

"In the hour of birth, or on some other occasion of moment, the mother might give a name to her child, indicating some dominant feature of its nature as perceived by her, or some foresight of its special fate." -Morgoth's Ring

* * *

"No! Stop it!" little Angarato screamed as he was roughly lifted off his feet, over his cousin's shoulder. His meanest cousin's shoulder.

"Let's see if the fish can swim!" Carnistir laughed and began carrying the blond elfling to the small, muddy lake. Only a few brave children played there when their mothers were not watching. Usually this meant Tyelkormo, Findekano, and Irisse, but Aikanaro had made it there once.

"Put me down!" Angarato insisted. He beat his little fists on his cousin's back, in an attempt to earn his freedom. Unfortunately, Carnistir had more experience dealing with quick-tempered brothers than Angarato did.

"Eww. You even stink like a fish," Carnistir shifted Angarato off his shoulder to under his arm.

Angarato had begun to cry. "I do not!" he hiccupped.

"Of course you do. All Teler smell like fish. You can't help it."

Angarato kept kicking, forcing Carnistir to keep shifting. "Do not! You're just stupid." It wasn't a word Angarato was allowed to use, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Carnistir laughed harder. "I'm not stupid. And you smell like fish. Do you know why?" he swung the elfling down to dangle upside down when Angarato did not answer.

"Why?" he sniffled.

"Because you are not Noldo." Carnistir readjusted the elflings again, holding him at arm's length to look in his eyes.

"Yes I…" he kicked Carnistir in the leg "…am."

Carnistir hissed but didn't drop Angarato. "No you're not. You don't even have a Noldorin name! You're mother is Telerin, and your father... who knows what he is. And you Angarato? You're even worse! Huan is more Noldo than you."

Angarato cried limply. He didn't bother to wipe his nose. It wasn't important now that he was about to drown in mud.

"Oh look, here we are. One…"

Angarato's stomach flipped as Carnistir swung him.

"Two…" Angarato started screaming, hoping that someone, anyone, would hear and come to rescue him.

"Moryofinwe Carnistir Feanorion! You put him down right this second!"

Angarato was on the ground the second after he heard his aunt's voice. He kept crying when Nerdanel ran up. She knelt beside him and began dry his eyes and wipe his nose with her sleeve.

"Angarato!" he heard his own mother shout. She switched places with Nerdanel and gently held his head. "Are you alright?" He nodded and hugged his mother, sighing in relief as she stroked his hair. He could hear Carnistir and Nerdanel off to the side. He looked up to watch his cousin get in trouble.

"We were just playing!"

Nerdanel scoffed, "This is not acceptable behavior. Shame on you!"

"I just…"

"I don't even want to hear it. Apologize to your cousin," Nerdanel ordered, pointing to Angarato. Carnistir rolled his eyes. Angarato glared at him.

"Do not roll your eyes at me," she smacked his ear. Angarato grinned when his cousin flinched. "Apologize."

Carnistir sighed dramatically and looked at the ground. "Sorry," he grumbled. Angarato nodded and Carnistir stomped off.

"I'm so sorry Earwen. I'll see to it this is taken care of," Nerdanel looked at Angarato.

Earwen smiled. "Don't worry, he's fine." Nerdanel nodded and left.

Angarato pouted. "I'm not THAT fine."

Earwen looked at her son. "Are you hurt?" she asked gently.

Considering this, Angarato shook his head. "Well, no but… Carnistir called me a stinky fish because he said I'm not a Noldo." He sniffed again as the tears threatened to come back.

"I see," Earwen nodded.

"Nana, do people call you a stinky fish too?"

Earwen thought for a moment. "No, but some people say that don't belong in Tirion. They believe that I should not have married your father because I am Telerin."

Angarato looked dejected, so Earwen kept speaking. "Do you know what I think?"

The elflings wiped his eyes and shook his head. "I think that I would not want to be any different. I love the sea. I can sail a boat and read a map. Being Telerin helps make me, me. Your father is wise and generous, he plays harp, and helps your grandfather make treaties. Being Noldor and Vanyar are what make him special. And you.." Angarato laughed as his mother tickled his stomach. "like to swim and read and make crafts. That is why you are so special."

Earwen lifted Angarato's chin and looked into his eyes. "Don't let other people tell you who you are, Angarato." She kissed the top of his head.

* * *

Angarato's name was Telerin, not Quenya.

Here's some naming help if you are like me and sometimes confuse Quenya and Sindarin:

Angarato = Angrod

Carnistir = Caranthir

Tyelkormo = Celegorm

Findekano = Fingon

Irisse = Aredhel

Aikanaro = Aegnor

I do not think Caranthir and Angrod were as close in age as I made it seem, but let's just pretend that it works because time was measured differently back then. Or something.


	7. Fairness

**Fairness**

"Therefore they made that League which is called the Last Alliance, and they marched east into Middle-earth gathering a great host of Elves and Men; and they halted for a while at Imladris. It is said that the host that was there assembled was fairer and more splendid in arms than any that has since been seen in Middle-earth, and none greater has been mustered since the host of the Valar went against Thangorodrim." -The Silmarillion

* * *

"Can I help you, daughter?"

"I…" Celebrian realized the awkwardness of her situation only after seeing her father's annoyance. However, the idea to visit the training field was her mother's. Galadriel was actively working to become the High King's mother-in-law. Her schemes were becoming alarmingly unsubtle. Celebrian mostly chose to ignore her mother's plotting, but she had bought into this particular manipulation eagerly.

Now, she found herself surrounded by an army of gorgeous, black-haired, grey-eyed elves, their strong bodies glistening with sweat. It was not fair. He was not here, although he should have been. Celebrian was certain that being here was part of his job.

"Celeborn."

Celebrian jumped at the booming voice behind her. She spun and found herself unintentionally ogling the target of her mother's plans. Gil-Galad was extremely handsome. More than he should be. It was not fair.

"My lady," the king offered Celebrian an exquisite court bow. He grinned at her as if he could read her mind, but he would only need to look at her red face to know what she was thinking.

She squeaked an answer and turned to face her father. He looked more annoyed than before, and Celebrian realized she had never answered his question.

"Naneth wants to know… she is wondering if… will you be dining in the hall tonight?" The snort she heard over her shoulder told her this question sounded contrived as well as lame. She ignored the temptation to turn back and glare at the elf behind her.

"Really? Your mother sent you here, now, to ask me that?" Celeborn refused to embrace the pathetic façade.

Celebrian nodded, wishing her father would believe her. It was the truth.

Celeborn glared at his daughter for a moment, and then wiped the sweat off his forehead. "Fine," he sighed. "Tell your mother, yes, I was planning on dining in the hall this evening. Just like last evening, and every evening since we have arrived in Rivendell. If you will excuse me, I have to go." The silver haired elf nodded to the king, and jogged off.

Relieved at the dismissal, Celebrian attempted to make her escape. She turned and bolted, which launched her into the High King's broad chest. She stumbled backwards, and he caught her. She was dismayed when he did not let go.

"Are you alright?" he asked. She nodded. "Are you sure?"

"I'm fine," she said quickly. "I really am fine," she continued when he did not release her.

"Ah, Elrond," Gil-Galad addressed his approching herald. Celebrian closed her eyes, thinking she might cry with frustration and embarrassment. The king still had not let her go.

"I have your spear, my lord," Elrond tossed him the weapon, forcing Gil-Galad to release Celebrian in order to keep Aiglos from falling on the ground.

Celebrian pulled away, and began sprinting back across the field. Realizing how rude it was to turn her back and run from royalty, she waved a farewell.

The afternoon passed far too swiftly before dinnertime came. Celebrian wanted to skip the formal meal, but her mother insisted she attend. She went to the hall because her choices were eating dinner there, or throwing a tantrum and then eating dinner there. She scrubbed her face, put on a clean gown, and tried not to consider how court robes hid much of the muscular physique of the person wearing them.

She followed her parents to the meal. Celebrian smiled when Lindir, Rivendell's minstrel, beckoned to her. She walked up to he was talking with Erestor, Elrond's steward. Or advisor. Or librarian. Celebrian had been surprised to learn he was going to Mordor as a soldier. He seemed much too bookish, but she had heard he was an excellent swordsman.

Lindir greeted her warmly, handing her a cold glass of wine. She accepted it gratefully, and wished a good evening to Erestor. The quiet elf smiled politely back at her. She enjoyed Lindir's excited chatter while everyone waited for the meal to begin.

The minstrel glanced at the front of the room and gave an impressed whistle. "It looks like the king has suffered the first wound in this war." Celebrian looked in the direction Lindir nodded toward. Gil-Galad sported an ugly black eye.

Erestor chuckled. "It's gotten worse, I think."

"How did that happen?" Celebrian asked.

"Training accident. That's the official word, at least. I suspect foul play," Erestor answered.

"Who did it?" Celebrian's thoughts echoed Lindir's question. She was worried her father was involved.

"Elrond," Erestor grinned.

"What? No!" neither Celebrian nor Lindir believed the healer was capable of intentionally harming anyone, especially not the king.

Erestor nodded. "Oh, it's true. I have not seen him fight like that in years. I wished I knew what inspired such anger."

Lindir sniffed. "No kidding. It seems like something that must be avoided."

Celebrian smiled. Maybe, she should not have left quite so quickly that afternoon. After all that effort, she had missed him fighting his best. It really was not fair.

* * *

Takes place before the first war of the ring (Ring War I?).

Aiglos is Gil-Galad's spear.

I know that elves marry for love, but I bet Galadriel might have tried to help her daughter fall in love with the High King. I don't think they were close enough cousins to make it toooo weird.


	8. Family

"In Eregion the craftsmen of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, the People of the Jewel-smiths, surpassed in cunning all that have ever wrought, save only Fëanor himself; and indeed greatest in skill among them was Celebrimbor, son of Curufin, who was estranged from his father and remained in Nargothrond when Celegorm and Curufin were driven forth, as is told in the Quenta Silmarillion." -The Silmarillion

* * *

Various objects covered every surface of the room, but the studio was not cluttered. Scraps of precious metals-gold, silver, and mithril-were organized according to size, kind, and quality. Raw, uncut gems sat in small boxes or shelves. Pliers and clippers of different shapes were lined across the workbenches that encircled the room. Soldering irons, tongs, and clamps lay near the furnace. Aprons and gloves hung on the hooks in the walls.

At first glance, everything appeared to be in place. Finduilas knew better. She heard no sounds of steady hammering or sizzling of hot metal in water.

The smith was not at work.

He was staring down at his tools, weighing the value of each one.

"You're leaving," the silver-haired elleth said.

The smith gave her half a glance to acknowledge her presence. "I don't have a choice." He sounded regretful.

"Cousin," she addressed the elf. They were barely cousins, but they claimed the relationship anyway.

"Your father banished us…"

"My father banished Celegorm and Curufin." She would not claim those relationships. "Anyone else who leaves with them chooses to do so." She stepped forward, putting a hand on Celebrimbor's arm.

He turned and looked at her. "I can't stay! Not now. Not after what they did."

"Why not? You weren't even there when Celegorm gave his poisoned speech. You didn't even know about Princess Luthien until she had left."

"Ignorance is my defense against these crimes? Of kidnapping? Of treason?" he shouted as he raked a grimy hand through his hair. "Of … of murder?"

Finduilas looked down at her feet and shook her head.

Celebrimbor picked up a chunk of metal from the table in front of him. He examined it closely. Finduilas was startled when he threw the object across the room with a frustrated scream. "I wasn't ignorant. I took that cursed Oath deliberately. I knew what I was doing when I killed the Telerin sailors. I helped them burn those ships." He slumped onto a stool and rubbed his eyes. "I am a murderer."

Finduilas took his dirty hand from his face and placed her own silk handkerchief into it. "That's not who you are," she chided gently.

Celebrimbor glared at her, "Were you not listening?"

"You did those things, but that does not mean they must define you," she insisted.

"I do not have a choice," he repeated. "I took the Oath…"

"To the Void with your Oath! It is your life, of course you choose how to live it! Uncle did not need to fulfill his vow to Beren, he was honorable and so he decided to. Celegorm and Curufin did not do what they did because of their Oath! They did what they did because they were greedy and hateful!" Celebrimbor looked up at her in surprised. Finduilas was normally reserved, quiet, and calm like her father. "You do not have to follow them!"

"I cannot leave my father." He offered another excuse.

"He will lead you to your death," she insisted.

"You have no right to speak those words!" he stood up and shook a finger in the elleth's face. "You do not understand. He is the only family I have! I love him," he shouted.

Finduilas stood her ground. She spoke quietly but firmly, "But that does not mean you can save him."

Celebrimbor opened his mouth to yell at his cousin, but he stopped and closed it. He sat down again, threw the handkerchief down on the table, and dropped his head on his hands. He sighed. "But I want to."

"I know," Finduilas said softly. She walked over to Celebrimbor and gently stroked his hair. They were quiet for a few minutes.

The smith shook his head. "I could not face your father."

Finduilas gave a small smile. "It takes more courage to stay than to run," she shrugged.

"Undoubtedly." Celebrimbor stood up and put on his gloves.

"What are you doing?" Finduilas inquired.

"Thinking. I always think better when I am working." He walked over to a table and began picking through the various pieces of metal. Finduilas smiled and started walking toward the door.

"Finduilas," Celebrimbor called, stopping her. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." She smiled and left.

* * *

I am working off the assumption that Celebrimbor is a jewel smith at the time of this story. I am also assuming that his workshop looked something like a college level jewelry-making classroom, minus the plastic goggles, electricity, and water bottles filled with Mt. Dew. I will happily argue with anyone who believes Feanor would not have invented soldering irons.


	9. Power

**Power**

"Fëanor and his sons abode seldom in one place for long, but travelled far and wide upon the confines of Valinor, going even to the borders of the Dark and the cold shores of the Outer Sea, seeking the unknown." -Silmarillion

* * *

The day was warm, but the cold sea breeze made Findarato shiver. He squished his toes in the warm, dry sand and looked out over the waves. The beaches just north of Alqualonde were his favorite part of Aman. The ocean was colder, wilder than it was in his grandfather Olwe's city.

"Findarato!" The elegant voice startled the blonde elf out of his daydreams.

Findekano snickered. Makalaure sighed. "Sorry, cousin. I got lost thinking about the sea."

"I noticed," Makalaure confirmed. "This is an important lesson. What I am teaching you today will help you to be more than a technically masterful musician. Both of you can play the harp well enough," he nodded to Findarato and Findekano. "But music is more than rhythm, notes, tempo, and tone. I can play a perfect phrase," Makalaure plucked a tune on his harp. It was lovely, as always, but sounded sterile and slightly forced. "But it isn't the same as when I play from my heart." Makalaure played the tune again and it sounded sweet and sorrowful. "Now you try," he instructed his two students.

Findarato went first. He played part of the love song he had been memorizing. He copied the instructions the writer had given, slowing down, speeding up, becoming louder and softer.

When he finished, Makalaure nodded. "Try again. Feel the music this time."

Findarato mentally sighed and lifted his harp. He began again. He closed his eyes and played, not thinking too hard about how the music was written. He stopped and opened his eyes.

"Let's attempt something different," Makalaure said. "This is a romantic song, about beauty and love. I want you to think about the person you love. The maiden with the golden hair, blue eyes, and sweet smile?" Finrod blushed. Thinking about Amarie always made him feel warm and giddy. Makalaure continued, "Think of her when you play the song."

Findarato nodded. He shut his eyes and began to pluck the harp strings. He pictured his Vanya friend. He remembered chasing her through the forest near his grandmother's home. She laughed as she ran through the trees, twirling in the meadow through pure joy, the light of Laurelin made her glow. And when he caught her…

He was surprised when the song ended. He looked up, shocked to be staring at his cousins, hearing rolling waves in the background.

Makalaure smiled. "Findekano, it is your turn."

"I can't play like that," Findekano complained. "I am not courting anyone."

Makalaure lifted an eyebrow. "You have been of age for several years. There must be someone that you care for or used to care for."

"What about that girl you were dancing with at Grandfather's birthday? You spent the whole evening with her," Findarato encouraged.

Findekano rolled his eyes. "That was because she followed me. She was pretty, but… she was boring! I don't care about what color ribbons go with a specific shade of gown material."

"Are you honestly telling me that you have never found anyone who intrigued you?" Makalaure stated, unconvinced.

Findekano thought for a moment. He sighed and picked up his instrument.

Smiling, Findarato enjoyed his cousin's music. He had never heard Findekano play so beautifully. It was passionate, full of fire and life. He blinked when the song finished, once again he was startled by the abrupt end.

Makalaure grinned. "I would very much like to find a lady like that. Well done both of you." Findarato and his fellow student felt very pleased with themselves. A 'well done' from Makalaure was honest and rare. "As we have just learned, music can evoke emotions. It can also conjure up images. Listen."

The master bard took up his harp and began to play. Immediately, Findarato was transported to the mountains around Taniquetl. The light from the trees glimmered off the snow from the peaks. Eagles flew overhead, gliding to their nests. Fresh mountain air whipped around Findarato, and he shivered.

Makalaure finished his tune with a majestic flourish, and Findarato watched as the mountains disappeared and were replaced by white sand and blue water.

Findarato snorted. "I don't think I'll ever be good enough to conjure images out of my harp playing." Findekano nodded his assent.

"Not now, perhaps, but someday you will be able to do even more." Makalaure's student's looked skeptical at this prediction. He explained further, "Music has its own power. I can accomplish things with music. Music is light and magic, a more useful tool than a bow, a lamp, or a smith's hammer."

"Now I know you're lying," Findekano rolled his eyes.

"Watch." Makalaure commanded. He played a lilting strain without a clear tune, notes running into each other.

Findekano and Findarato looked at each other, silently agreeing their cousin was…eccentric. Before Findarato could grin and shake his head he heard squawking. He looked up and saw seabirds- gulls, terns, and albatrosses- circling above them, responding to the music.

Findarato watched openmouthed and unblinking. Only his grandfather, king of the sea elves and friend to Ulmo, commanded such authority. Perhaps. His awed musings were rudely shattered when Findekano fell off the rock he was sitting on, howling with laughter.

Makalaure frowned at his impertinent student. He leaned down, picked up a clump of slimy seaweed, and tossed it at Findekano. It hit him in the face, instantly bringing an end to his fit. Findarato choked back a laugh of his own.

"We can learn to…to summon birds?" Findekano hiccupped, trying to cover his glee. "When will that ever prove useful?"

Smirking, Findarato answered, "You never know. Maybe if your horse ever throws a shoe and you needed a ride home…"

"I could call one to come and give me a lift." Both cousins erupted into hilarity. Findarato's sides ached.

"Well, I think we're done for today's lesson." Makalaure grumbled. He stood up.

"Wait," protested Findarato.

"Don't go. Will you teach us how to put someone to sleep right away?"

"Or how to hide Carnistir's ugly face from having to be seen by the rest of the world."

"Maybe there's a song that will instantly make someone fall in love with you!"

Makalaure stomped through the white beach sand. He addressed them over his shoulder. "My time is far too valuable to be spent with two flibbertigibbets like you!" He left, kicking up sand behind him.

Even though Findarato and Findekano knew they would be in big trouble for deliberately frustrating the most coveted music tutor in Aman, they could not stop cackling at the absurdity.

* * *

I think I can justify using this quote by pointing out that Maglor (a Feanorion) was at the ocean (within the confines of Valinor).

This story could be considered a prequel to Chapter 11 of my story Suilad.


	10. Treasure

AN: This will not be the last chapter I write. I cannot end it here.

"If the elf-king had a weakness it was for treasure, especially for silver and white gems; and though his hoard was rich, he was ever eager for more, since he had not yet as great a treasure as other elf-lords of old." –The Hobbit

* * *

**Treasure**

Dinner at the court of Menegroth was always an ostentatious affair, and this one was no different. Lamp light glittered off gemstones in the wall, colorful gowns, and crystal goblets. Wines of different shades and aromas filled glasses, bottles, and decanters. Long tables were laden with roasted pheasants, fresh vegetables, and warm bread. Everyone— royal, courtier, and commoner— dressed in their finest, wearing garments of silk, mithril jewelry, velvet robes, embroidered shirts, and long hair braided with flowers.

This was, without question, the most miserable meal Galadriel had ever attended. Ever since Beren was sent away, and Luthien escaped to follow him, dinners at the king's table had grown progressively tense and dull. This particular one was excruciating.

King Thingol hacked at the meat on his plate, obviously wishing it was Beren he was stabbing instead of the innocent duck. Queen Melian stared straight ahead, a slight frown above her glassy gaze. The court was in various stages of respectful silence or fidgeting worry. There was no music, because Daeron was despondent and had not been seen in days.

Galadriel herself was consumed with a feeling of dread. She was nauseous and unable to eat, although Celeborn tried to get her to take some bread or wine. She looked around, feeling claustrophobic thousands of feet underground. As she was about to leave to find some fresh air, there was a commotion at the front of the room.

A silver-haired warden approached the king and whispered into Thingol's ear. The king lifted an eyebrow and beckoned towards the doors. A figure walked wearily towards the front of the hall and bowed toward Thingol. He wore a green cloak pulled over his head. Mud from his journey was splattered over his boots. The king gestured for the traveler to speak.

The elf stood in front of the king's table. He pulled down his traveling cape, revealing red-rimmed gray eyes and blond hair cropped short. Several audible gasps reverberated through the hall. Short hair was not common among the eldar. Morgoth's minions cut the hair of their elven captives to shame them. Sometimes elves wore their hair short when they were in mourning.

Galadriel barely realized she had stood up. She recognized Gildor Inglorion despite his stooped bearing and solemn affect.

The hall was hushed, waiting to hear what the visitor had to say.

"Elu Thingol, King of Doriath. I come with a message from Nargothrond, concerning your daughter." He paused as the listeners gasped and whispered together. _Luthien_.

Thigol sat straight in his throne, his eyes bored into the Noldo in front of him. "What message?" he demanded coldly.

"She lives my lord," relief flashed in Thingol's eyes at Gildor's words. "She came to us and stayed for several weeks."

Thingol frowned and cocked his head. "Came. Stayed? Where is she now?"

Gildor lifted his chin and bravely plunged ahead. "She left to follow Beren." Thingol stood, outraged. Gildor continued. "She found him in Tol-in-Gaurhoth. We received word back that the tower had fallen. She defeated Morgoth's Lieutenant and freed the captives inside."

The king looked to Celeborn, meeting his marchwarden's eyes. Sauron had held Tol-in-Gaurhoth for years. Finrod had given over his watchtower and had not dared to reclaim it. Everyone thought it was impossible and pointless. But Luthien had done it.

"After sending word to us, she and Beren left together. She informed us they were going to Angband, to steal a silmaril for her dowry." Gildor trembled slightly. Galadriel noticed he looked sick. As sick as she felt.

Thingol sat down, falling back into his seat. Galadriel saw that the realization had hit him. He had condemned his daughter to death. Death if she was fortunate.

Thingol found his voice. "Why, did Finrod, my ally, my kin… why did he let her go? Does he care so little of his friends that he would allow my most precious treasure to fall into Morgoth's hands?" he wailed, jumping out of his seat, advancing upon Gildor. He was nose to nose with the messenger. Galadriel wondered if the king would strike Gildor.

The golden-haired elf stared at the king for several long seconds. His jaw trembled. "King Finrod…" he stopped and gathered his emotions. "King Finrod would not have allowed your daughter to leave on her own, you know this my lord. Lord Orodreth was left as steward of Nargothrond but your daughter had already fled before he was free to assist her."

"And where…" Thingol whispered dangerously, "was Finrod, while my daughter was advancing upon Tol-in-Gaurhoth?"

"He was with Beren."

Galadriel clutched her stomach. She let out the breath she had been holding with a slight cry. Celeborn put a comforting hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off and approached the elves in the center of the hall. "Gildor…" she needed to know, but she could not ask.

The Noldo looked at her, stricken. The look in his eyes told Galadriel what she needed to know, but what she never wanted to learn. Her brother was dead. "How?" her voice was calmer than she felt.

"Galadriel," a deep voice rose from the Queen's throne. Melian rose and glided forward. She reached an elegant hand toward Galadriel, her long fingers caressing the ellith's face. "Some things are better left unknown."

Galadriel felt panicky. She could not breathe properly. Her brother was dead. She whirled to face Gildor. "What happened?" she demanded. Melian reached out again, but Galadriel ignored her mentor.

"Please, my lady, do not ask." Gildor looked at Galadriel. A tear trailed down his cheek.

"Gildor! I have to know!" she was nearly hysterical by now.

The blonde elf nodded and began to speak in a quivering voice. "A few weeks ago our scouts captured a man outside of Nargothrond. He demanded to speak to the king. He presented the ring his father had received from Finrod, and the man reminded the king of his promise of aid." Galadriel remembered the story of how Beren's father had rescued Finrod during the most recent battle against Morgoth, and her brother's gratitude.

"Beren asked for help," Gildor glanced at Thingol and continued: "He needed to steal a silmaril from the crown of Morgoth as a bride price for the woman he loved. As you might guess, this caused an uproar. Our king declared that he would honor his word and assist the mortal. They began to discuss how best to approach this quest when they were interrupted."

Galadriel clenched her fists and closed her eyes. "Celegorm and Curufin." Her cousins had retreated to Nargothrond with their people when their land was overtaken.

Gildor nodded. "The Feanorians reminded us that the silmarils were theirs, and nothing would prevent them from taking the jewels back. Their threats succeeded in undermining our loyalty. The king left with Beren. Only ten had the courage to accompany them." Gildor covered his face in his hands, trying not to sob as he talked. "I would have gone with him. I wanted to go… He would not let me."

Galadriel was stunned. Finrod had lead his people through the Grinding Ice. They followed him to Dorthonian and helped establish Nargothrond. He had fought beside them during the battles against Morgoth, and mourned with them after the battles ended. Galadriel could not believe they had abandoned Finrod. She hated her counsins now more than she had hated her uncle after the kinslaying. Their betrayal was purposeful and cowardly.

She looked up when she realized Gildor had not completed his tale. "Please," she whispered to the grief-stricken elf in front of her.

He took a deep breath, met her eyes, and continued. He spoke about their journey from Nargothrond, and how Finrod had disguised the small party as an orc band. He explained that Sauron, Morgoth's lieutenant saw through their subterfuge and brought them to Tol-in-Gaurhoth. He described the musical duel between the elven king and the evil Maia.

Galadriel heard that Sauron had defeated her brother and imprisoned the group. She was sickened by learning that each of Finrod's ten faithful companions were killed by wolves.

Galadriel quietly listened as Gildor finished his story, of how Finrod had attacked the wolf that was intent on devouring Beren, but was mortally wounded and died soon after. Gildor's tale ended there because he could not go on.

"Thank you," Galadriel said, not really hearing her own words. She gazed around the room until her eyes rested on Melian. The look of pity on the queen's face cut into her numbness like a dagger.

"You knew," Galadriel realized. "You knew this would happen the moment Beren walked out of the gate."

Melian's expression did not change. "I cannot tell the future child," she gently admonished.

"But you can see the present. You knew my brother was lying in Sauron's dungeon, you knew he was dying and you did not tell me!" she accused.

"Yes," Galadriel's mentor confessed. "That was not for you to watch."

"I'm his sister! I needed to know."

"There was nothing you could have done," Melian argued calmly.

"I could have been there. _Úcarnet nin!__"_ Thingol's courtiers had been murmuring throughout this insolent exchange. There was a collective gasp as Galadriel switched into her native tongue. Speaking Quenya was a severe offense. Galadriel remained oblivious as she sank to her knees.

Gildor knelt beside her, holding her close as she wept. "_Nai! Nai! Melda Ingoldo." _

She did not see one of Thingol's marchwardens tentatively step forward, glancing from her to the king, silently asking for direction. Thingol frowned, slightly unsure. Sensing the king's displeasure the guard approach the elleth crying on the floor. The confrontation ended before it began when Celeborn leapt in front of the elf with a look that could have impaled a mountain troll. Chastised, the guard backed away.

Despite being held in the arms of a friend, being guarded by someone who loved her, and being surrounded by a hall full of people, Galadriel had never felt so completely alone.

* * *

In the words of the Tenth Doctor, "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." I think this took so long to post because it was brutal to write. Yet it was the longest chapter. *sigh*

I sincerely hope this is proper Quenya, let me know if I'm wrong.

_Úcarnet nin!- _You have wronged me!

___Nai! Nai! Melda Ingoldo- _Alas! Alas! Beloved Ingoldo

_Ingoldo-_ Finrod


	11. Love

AN: This takes place after the first kinslaying, after Finarfin returned to Tirion, but before his coronation. This is also set after the chapter _Judgement_. I don't think Earwen has spoken to Finarfin yet.

**Love**

"The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater." -Fellowship of the Ring

* * *

The small gold band was such a simple thing, really. The object itself was nothing compared with the mithril, gemstones, and silver commonly worn by the elves of Aman.

Perhaps the simplicity is what made them unique, more precious and sentimental than any other piece of jewelry. The value of a wedding ring did not come from the simple craftsmanship or the small amount of gold. The value of a wedding ring came from what the symbol represented. Something immortal. Something sacred. Something that could not be broken.

Earwen clenched her fist around the ring, and her nails dug into her palm.

She was no longer naiive enough to believe in immortality. She had seen enough death in the past few weeks.

She did not believe in sacredness either. Not when she and her people had been forsaken by the Valar.

Once upon a time she had believed in things that were unbreakable.

Things like love.

The salty wind whipped across her face, biting into her cheeks. The ocean was storming again today. Ulmo and his maiar raged in their grief.

Earwen's thoughts were as tumultuous as the sea before her. She fingered the ring in her hand, once again toying with the idea of throwing it into the waves. Why hold onto the idea of an unbreakable bond when it was very clearly broken?

She lifted the ring to her lips, the hard metal was cold against her skin.

Earwen thought of her wedding ceremony when Arafinwe had taken her hand, and placed the ring on her finger. She pledged herself to him, vowing before Manwe, Varda, and Eru.

She knew marriage was not easy. She knew they would fight, she understood that they would need to work hard to build their relationship, and she acknowledged that they would disagree on important mattes.

She never believed that she would someday question how serious he was about their union. Arafinwe's abandonment had cut deeper than Feanaro's sword ever could.

"Earwen," she jumped and turned around. She had not heard her father approach.

"Atto," she whispered, leaning into him as he wrapped an arm around her.

"Will you go to Tirion for the coronation?" he inquired quietly. Earwen looked down and shook her head. Her father pulled away to study her. He glanced at the ring she was fingering. "He needs you there."

A bitter laugh left Earwen. "I doubt itt." She looked at her father, waiting for him to admonish her. When he remained quiet, she spoke. "He left." She clenched her fist again.

"He came back," Olwe spoke gently, his troubled eyes watching the sea.

"I needed him! He knew my brothers had died, he watched my people bleed on the beach, and he turned away. Instead of coming to me, his grieving wife, he followed his psychopathic brother who never loved him anyway!"

Olwe looked at her and tapped the ring she still held in her hand. "Throw it away then," he gestured toward the crashing surf. "Perhaps the offering of a token of Noldorin pride would appease Ulmo's wrath and assuage your own pain."

Earwen began to cry.

Olwe lifted up her chin so she met his eyes."Earwen, if I have learned one lesson in the midst of this madness, it is this: there are some things that are worth fighting for, and there are some things that must be let go." He took her hand and closed around the gold band. "Before you let this go, make absolutely certain that this is not worth the fight."

"Atto," she looked up.

"Go, daughter. Speak with him, listen to what he says," he kissed Earwen's forehead.

She sighed. "I suppose I owe him that much."

Olwe put his arms around her, holding her tight. "You owe that to yourself."

* * *

Ok, I know last time I said I would end on a happier note. I tried, I honestly did, but the fluffy story I was writing about Earwen kept growing, and after 3,000 words with no end in sight, I realized it was no longer a drabble. So you're stuck with this. I'm sorry. Just know that a happy Earwen/Finarfin story is on the way.

This will be the last intentional chapter in Golden Hearts. I might revisit it when I get inspired, I still have plot bunnies nibbling away, but that will be a sometime-in-the-future-when-I-find-time sort of deal.

Thank you to everyone who took the time to read this. You have no idea how much I loved getting your comments.


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